


Wilting Yellow Flowers

by aloneintherain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, I desperately want to hug the Parkers, News Media, uncle ben's grave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloneintherain/pseuds/aloneintherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the newspaper that made Peter’s breath hitch, panic welling, muscles tensing in shock. He unfolded it fully with shaky hands.</p><p>In thick, blocky letters, the headline spelled out: <em>SPIDER-MAN SPOTTED SLEEPING ON GRAVE.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wilting Yellow Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> I feel as though the loss/guilt Peter feels is under-explored in fandom. I doubt he goes through a week without acutely feeling grief’s sting.

 

It was early morning by the time Peter came home, the sounds of his Aunt’s running shower muffled through the walls, the house otherwise silent. He kicked his shoes off and snuck through the hall and into the kitchen, quiet.

The kitchen light was on, and the mail had already been brought in. Catalogues, worrying bills his Aunt hadn’t had time to hide yet, junk mail. Ordinary things.

It was the newspaper left on the table that made Peter’s breath hitch, panic welling, muscles tensing in shock. He unfolded it fully with shaky hands.

In thick, blocky letters, the headline spelled out: _SPIDER-MAN SPOTTED SLEEPING ON GRAVE._

There was an accompanying photograph, stretched out to fill two thirds of the front page. The quality wasn’t professional, and paled in comparison to Peter’s skilled shots, but it was clear enough; there, upon the grassy ground, Spider-Man lay, curled up on his side, masked head resting against the base of the tombstone. His gloved fingers palmed at the grassy dirt, as though to reach out and lace his fingers with the very earth.

The angle of the picture revealed fresh flowers placed against the base of the closest and neighbouring graves, blots of bright sunny yellow. Thankfully, the photograph was too blurry to make out the names printed on the tombstones.

The photograph was taken in dawning light, right before Peter had woken up (he hadn’t even realised he was being photographed; his spider-sense hadn’t even gone off). In the soft light, the red and blues of his suit shimmered, and the yellow flowers glowed, the colour vibrant.

It had been Uncle Ben’s favourite colour, Peter remembered. He’d liked it for how happy it was. Ben had said he was going to paint their house that colour, so they could live in a circumference of warmth.

“It would cheer the house up,” Uncle Ben said to Peter one day, a catalogue of paint swatches spread out beside his breakfast.

Aunt May swatted at him with her spatula. “Don’t you go painting my lovely house _yellow_ , Ben! It’s too bright!”

“You’re right,” Ben allowed, and leaned in to press a cheeky kiss against his wife’s pursed lips, “you’re the only sunshine I need in my life.”

Aunt May had smiled shyly at that, and leaned in for a second kiss. Peter had pretended to gag and shield his eyes.

Grief had dragged him down last night, pressed him into the dirt, where Peter had curled up underneath it, the feeling of loss like a well-worn blanket. He’d carried out a one-sided conversation, whispered against his mask (“Aunt May pretends she’s not sad anymore, but I know better. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—I should be a better nephew. To the both of you.”), dragged out for hours.

Peter was resolved not to keep anything from his Uncle. Not anymore. (Even if that meant whispering admissions of guilt to a slab of cold, emotionless concrete, and wishing desperately for warm, strong hands instead of cold grass and bundles of flowers).

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he had—and _in his suit._ And someone had _seen him._ Someone had photographed him in that vulnerable position, bracketed by graves and curled in soft, dawning sunlight.

Peter read the article following the photograph, chest tight:

_Late yesterday, a New York local—who wishes to remain anonymous due to privacy reasons—photographed regional hero, Spider-Man, asleep by someone’s graveside. Though she’d seen him only at a distance, and was afraid of moving closer lest she rouse the slumbering hero, she reported seeing “identical yellow flowers lining three tombstones,” leading us to believe Spider-Man was visiting the graves of multiple persons. When asked, the anonymous photographer said, “It was clearly Spider-Man. I’d seen all the photos and videos on TV, and when I saw him, I was so surprised! I’d never thought anything of the man underneath the mask, but now I can’t shake the thought. Obviously, he’s lost people too. Loved them enough to fall asleep against their grave.”_

_The woman did not venture closer to see who the graves belong to, though she speculated that they must have meant a great deal to the masked hero. Anyone with information pertaining to the identity of Spider-Man or the owners of the graves can contact—_

Deeper in the house, the shower switched off. Peter dropped the newspaper and bolted up the stairs, shrugging off his old clothing, grabbing his school things, and rushing out of the house before his Aunt remerged from her bedroom.

Peter didn’t think he could stomach talking to her after spending the night sleeping on her husband’s grave. He couldn’t stand looking into her eyes as though nothing was amiss, couldn’t bring himself to casually discuss the front page article on Spider-Man without giving away how vulnerable he felt, personally violated by such a breach of privacy.

Peter was out the door and half way to school before he even considered that perhaps Aunt May, the only other person who had seen the thing as frequently as Peter, might be able to recognise the gravestone in the photograph as Uncle Ben’s.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter expected backlash after the photograph. He expected several media organisations to spin the photograph in a negative light.

He expected various headlines of various degrees of ridiculousness.

He expected, _SPIDER-MAN DECIMATES GRAVES!_

Or maybe, _SPIDER-MAN HOMELESS? CAUGHT SLEEPING IN CEMETERY!_

But Peter found none of that. He found, instead, that the photograph was widely popular, featured in a range of printed media. Remarkably, not even the _Daily Bugle_ had anything bad to say about their neighbourhood menace’s photographed grief.

People were sympathetic. They found the pictured sad, but touching.

Apparently, it painted the superhero community in a positive light. Humanised those in costume. None of that made Peter feel any better.

In class, Gwen nudged his sneakered foot with her own. When he looked up, she smiled kindly at him, and whispered, “Are you okay?”

Peter shrugged, noncommittal. Gwen wet her lips, glanced over at the distracted teacher, and continued, “I just—I saw the photo—”

Something twisted painfully in Peter’s gut, and he snapped, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

A flash of hurt flickered across Gwen’s face, and Peter had to wrestle down the urge to reach out, to brush his hand against her’s and offer comfort and apologies. He wanted to tell her all about the tangled mass of guilt and grief and reverberating emptiness sitting in his stomach, but he had promised. He had to stay away from her. He had to.

“If you ever decide you do want to talk, I’m here.” And that was Gwen, reaching out, being nicer and more supportive than Peter deserved.

(Peter squashed down the image of Gwen at Captain Stacy’s graveside, flowers held loosely in her hand. Had Gwen ever fallen asleep there like Peter, wishing desperately for more than a silent, unresponsive tombstone?)

Gwen’s attempt at comfort helped soothe the burning ache in Peter’s chest. Gwen’s soft words, her tentative smile, helped lift some of the weight off of Peter’s bowing shoulders.

He was so glad that she, at least, was here, warm and real, able to smile and talk and respond to Peter. Their conversations may still only be tense whispers, may be largely one-sided, but at least Gwen wasn’t a cold tombstone. Not yet. Not ever.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter returned home earlier than expected—that night, when he had put on the suit, he felt as though more eyes followed his graceful, arching swings. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he felt scrutinised. Like he was under some kind of spotlight. It was stifling.

Despite the early hour, the house was dimly lit. Several lamps were glowing faintly, and the overheard kitchen light was the only one switched on. That was where Peter found his Aunt, sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown, a mug of tea held in her hands.

But it wasn’t his Aunt’s tired form that drew his eyes. It was the brilliant spots of yellow that had Peter’s freezing, the three identical blooms of flowers, lined up along the windowsill.

“Aunt May,” Peter choked out, “those aren’t—those aren’t ours.”

The yellow flowers were already beginning to wilt. In the kitchen’s harsh, artificial light, they seemed lifeless and dull. Out of place.

Aunt May stood, and approached him carefully. She placed her palms on Peter’s cheeks, cradling his face. Though her eyes were soft, there was something serious in her expression.

“He’ll understand,” Aunt May told him. “And I made sure to replace them with purple daffodils, instead.”

“But that colour—he loves that yellow—”

Aunt May brushed hair off of his forehead, still sweaty from his mask. “I know, Peter, but he would understand.” She met his eyes evenly, her words firm. Serious. “If it meant protecting us both, Ben would understand. He would forgive us.”

Peter looked at the flowers, wilting and pointless in their small kitchen. They didn’t belong here. “They should be with him.”

“There were so many people at the cemetery, Peter. Dozens, most with cameras, all of them looking for the graves shown in that photograph. Those flowers are beautiful, and it was so thoughtful of you to bring them to him and your parents, but yellow isn’t exactly discreet.”

Peter swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He felt as though he’d betrayed Uncle Ben, somehow. Let him down once again. First, he’d fallen asleep over his grave—certainly a disrespectful act—and now, he called the world’s attention to the gravesite. He’d made his Aunt go there for such a grim purpose, forced her to take those beautiful flowers from her dead husband.

He hadn’t realised he’d be able to disappoint someone even in death. Peter supposed he shouldn’t be surprised; he’s always been defying people’s expectations in the worst ways.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said thickly. “Aunt May, I’m so sorry, I should’ve known, I was so _stupid_ —”

“You are _not_ stupid, Peter.” Her thumb brushed against his cheek. “You’re so caring and thoughtful, and full of so much love for your Uncle and I. I’m proud of you, Peter, for how well you’ve dealt with all of this. For everything you’ve done.”

“I’m not strong, though, I’m not—”

 _“Yes, you are_. You’re so, so strong.”

Peter pressed against her touch and squeezed his eyes shut. “But I miss him. I miss him _so much._ I keep going as though I’m fine, but I’m not, I want him _back_ —”

Aunt May was smaller than him now, a good head shorter, but when she encased him in a tight hug, Peter melted into the embrace like he had as a child, arms wrapping tight around her, forehead pressed into her shoulder. “I know,” she soothed. “I know.”

“I want him back,” Peter choked out. His voice shook, his hands clutching at her dressing gown, holding on tightly.

 Aunt May's grip on her nephew was just as tight, just as desperate and grounding. “I know, I know,” she said. The house was silent, empty save for the two of them. On the windowsill, the yellow flowers continued to wilt, and in the quiet, Aunt May whispered into her nephew’s shaking chest, “I miss him, too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> And a few months later, when Peter visits and falls asleep by Gwen’s grave, he makes sure to wear jeans and sneakers and leave the Spider suit stuffed underneath his bed.


End file.
